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Shivam S Aug 2017
Dearest Father,
I know you are sad
For i am the son
No one would really have.
Still you love me
And gods know its true
For no one would do
As much as you
Have done for me
My dearest father.

Father,
I remember
the story of a poet
Who died hungry,
And how only a few
Acclaim fame in this virtue,
But,
He did not die angry Father
As many people do.
As many people do.

I know not Father,
Of what would become of me.
Literature has bit me
and set my mind free.
Of all things uncertain in this world
Poetry is the purest of love,
For it makes me write about you
My dearest Father,
The only man I love.
The only man I love.
Danny Aug 2017
You're so cool, so hot
you could be a model,
But you're far from a model girl
You spend your time hiding from our enemies, defy them
You don't compare to other girls
You don't let them change your mind but
Across the room you cry at their prys
Why do you listen to the lies?
They pry your eyes wide open and force you to see what's not there
What's not theirs to say
Why do people treat you this way?
They can't be jealous of the pain can't hide
When your looks don't reflect how you feel inside
So you open your soft wrists to the night.
They cry red tears that you're trying to wipe
But they keep on pouring, draining from your face
Clean sheet white in it's place
The fresh pink glow defaced
Because they can't embrace the you that's real, the you that means the world to him
He has his own pain but it was never his lover
In the constant rain, you were his cover
That was before you lost your colour
What can he do now? He'll never recover
When lying in the bath he discovers
He finds the thing that he's dreading the most, he's shearing tears like never before.
You'd told him your dream of their white wedding but he never expected that you meant white like this.
He holds your hand, cold to touch Screaming about how you've hurt him so much
Whispering that it was only ever you
He'd never love another.
He carried you from the bath to the bed and comforted you and kissed your head
"Goodnight my love" he closed his eyes and wished you could open yours instead
Take that pain upon his head
But you're gone and will never be replaced
So for one final time he held your waist and sang to you, that song he sang that very first date,
The one about dreams and fate
He remembered how he fell in love that night as he held you so close and tight and danced under the moonlight
Delight had consumed him
But now the hate had consumed you
A single tear rolls, alone like him
He looked at the moon like that first time
And took his place by your side like cruel art.
He even used the same blade as you, and drove it through his heart.
emma l Jul 2017
you were just a boy -
teeth glistening, cheeks aching -
rehearsed politeness and combed hair --
poise and dignity,
an air of confidence circles you like a shark

phony boy,
made from cellophane;
talk a big game, go home and write lines you'll never say

you stay awake -
you don't really have a choice -
remodel your town, make it the place you long for it to be;
remodel yourself --
carve yourself from marble, aluminum boy

they used to call you adonis;
now, they call you nothing
you were only a boy
this is different from the usual stuff

was just thinking about my favorite character of all time
Pearson Bolt Jul 2017
the rocking chair creeks on the back porch.
she cradles The Hobbit in her lap,
sips black tea and brings the joint to her lips,
carried away in an airborne ship of smoke
to Middle-Earth, an escape
from the tedium of 9-to-5s,
consumerism and bored housewives.

the cars **** by but she can’t hear.
she slips through the fabric of time
and space to the upside down. flipped
around with another page to hang
on the precipice of bliss implicit
in every interlocking sentence.

here, words cannot hurt, only heal.
within these holy septs, sacred texts
lead us to truths beyond the veil.
she who reads
has lived a thousand lives
in a fraction of the time.

i want to dive behind her cold brew eyes
and peruse the passages of synaptic gaps,
meandering along neurological paths,
for not all who wander are lost.
the human mind is like your favorite book—
once it’s been opened,
it can never again be truly closed.
Mikayla Smith Jul 2017
The ghosts come back to haunt her,
Their shadows lurking over the ancient escritoire,
Quill in hand, paper a blank canvas,
Wondering if the poets of the past would praise her
Or look on her in scorn,
Will her own words be a wordsmith's dream?
Will she live a travesty and be idolized in death?
She buzzes with unease,
Feeling the fierce grip of inspiration overcome her,
Succumbing her to its essence before it vanishes,
And in her isolation, the words dance,
Sometimes in harmony, sometimes in battle.
Something to write when there's too much inspiration.
afteryourimbaud Jul 2017
Why would I turn back
and smile,

if you left me out in the cold,
lost in the wild.
Tina RSH Jul 2017
O floating cloud! 
Take me to the end of the world
Deposit me on a solid piece of ground
My fists need to bite every inch of dust
My arms need to embrace the thin air 
And declare their nothingness
My hidden tears need overflowing 
And this thorn in my throat 
This thorn in my throat  
Scratches my voice
Blood pours out of my words 
And I breathe in a touch of silence 
The antidote to a dozen weeps 
I cannot withhold
I am one with the serenity 
Of a frozen lake, 
And The tranquil  ‎blackness of winter nights
O floating cloud! Be proud!
I have no wind to carry me anymore.
Tina RSH ©
13.07.17
7:23 PM
afteryourimbaud Jul 2017
Such a
disappointment
I have placed
myself in a
confinement

and

lurking for hope
in desperation
is no longer
part of the
only question.
13/7/2017
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